


Crooked Young

by glackedandmullered, tenlittlecock_bites



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Mental Illness, Psychiatric Hospital AU, eventual self harm, gonna be dealing with a whole list of disorders guys, indeterminate ages oops
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-09
Updated: 2015-07-28
Packaged: 2018-04-08 12:46:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4305624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glackedandmullered/pseuds/glackedandmullered, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenlittlecock_bites/pseuds/tenlittlecock_bites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"I don't remember anything,"</i>... <i>"The judge is getting you admitted."</i>...<i>"Admitted?"</i></p><p>Life isn't all fun and games locked up with the lost, even if you're just as in need as the rest of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> We'd like to apologise in advance for inaccuracies, we're trying our best with limited knowledge.

_"Michael, you bit a cop."_

_"I did_ what?"

Michael kept running through the same conversation over and over again in his mind as he was admitted, handcuffs not even taken off his wrists until he was behind the secure, locked doors of the mental ward of a local hospital in Austin.

_"You got him pretty bad. Apparently ripped off a huge chunk of skin."_

_"I don't remember anything."_

_"That’s the only reason you’re not heading to juvie right now. The judge says he's going to get you admitted."_

_"Admitted?"_

He’d barely been able to speak on the ride over, not that the accompanying officers wanted to say much to him anyway. His throat was lined with sandpaper, his lungs squeezed in a vice as he saw the town he knew well disappearing in the thin barred windows. His parents, his friends, they were all behind him. The only thing ahead was isolation, solitude, a hundred different ways of saying the same thing. He was going to be alone. Trapped. 

_“I’m not crazy,”_

_“Say it louder, maybe they’ll revoke the decision and lock you behind bars.”_

_“...I’m not-”_

How many times can one person blackout with unadulterated rage before ‘I’m not crazy’ becomes a fevered statement whispered in hope at four padded walls. 

\---

“The first thing we’re going to do is take you off all that medication.”

Michael blinked rapidly, sitting up straighter in the plush armchair. 

“I attack a cop and you want to take me off meds?” he asked incredulously, eyes wide in surprise. 

The therapist was a strange man. Michael was used to therapists, he’d been subjected to them since he was a child; they were stuffy and old and knew everything about you even before they’d met you. They had bland dark offices and windows that faced busy streets. They filled out forms and checked boxes and if you couldn’t fit into their tightly packed categories then they would crush your limbs and indent your skull until you did. 

It wasn’t hard to see why people avoided them.

As a complete contrast, Dr. Burns’ office felt like a breath of fresh air. It had three blue walls. Blue like the sky in the middle of a summers evening, deep but not dark and the fourth wall, the biggest that stretched across the back of his desk, was black but dusty. There were doodles in all sorts of colors and varying stages of existence marking the wall, and it took Michael a few minutes of intense staring to realise the black paint was the stuff that makes any surface a chalkboard. 

The desk, which has no front panel so Michael is able to see the man’s surprisingly jeans cladding his crossed legs, is mainly taken up with memorabilia. Vinyl figurines have a shelf of their own behind his computer monitor (Michael can identify a handful of characters as ones from his video games) and all in all, it looked more to Michael like his own bedroom than a therapists office. 

On top of the excellent work space, he had greeted Michael with a handshake, like an equal not a delinquent, and offered him a choice of drink from a clear fronted cooler beneath a bookcase. The light wood shelving was piled high with comic books, not hardback copies of freud. There was definitely something comforting about the place. And the man.

"Well, clearly they're not helping you like they should." Dr. Burns explained, his hands moving through the air in small motions as he spoke, "And if we're going to be giving you reliable treatment, we want to try it _without_ the help of pills and other stuff like that to see how you handle that."

Michael edged forward in the chair, gripping the seat with a slight tremor while his head shook back and forth,“No, you don’t get it, I’ve been on this stuff since I was-”

“Nine years old,” Burns interrupted smoothly, “Yes I have your file, and I’m sure you aren’t even aware of who you are without it all anymore, am I correct?”

“Well yes but-”

“Prozac, Celexa, Zoloft,” the older man read out, flicking through page after page of the thick folder containing more about Michael than he knew of himself, “Haloperidol, Sulpiride, wow you’ve had them all haven’t you.”

Michael shrugged, “Not all at once.”

Dr Burns laughed, a barking sound that made Michael jump, “I would hope not! I’m pretty sure our goal is to _treat_ patients, not kill them.”

His ease of conversation made Michael feel a little comfort, it was the first time he’d ever felt that way in a therapists office. 

“Look,” Burns started, hands clasped together on the desk, “I’m not saying you’ll be without medication for as long as you’re here, I know you need something. But there’s no harm in wiping the slate clean and trying to start again, is there? You’re 16, Michael, I’m not willing to sweep your life under the drug rug just yet.”

Michael stared passed the doctor’s ear at a particular doodle - not chalked on like the others, this one was engraved into the drywall - it was a teddy bear with dusty scratched fur and sharp pointy teeth that filled in a smile from misshapen ear to misshapen ear.

Burns drew his attention back by closing up the files, “Why don’t we leave it there for today, I know it’s been a big day for you and you could do with the rest. Do you have any questions for me?”

Thrown by the question, Michael goldfished; _how long will I be here? If I hate it do I get the choice to leave? Am I safe here?_ They were all questions that filled up the space between his brain and his eyes so much that the words became fog but he couldn’t form them into physical sounds so, instead he simply shook his head. 

Burnie stood, then, and Michael mirrored the movement, his hands starting to shake again at the prospect of heading out into the ward. Right now he was on the right side of the doors, he was on the escape side of the doors. Right now he could up and run and be away from the facility before anyone could say ‘Jail Time’ but, as the doctor pulled the door open and let in a thin, dark haired man in scrubs, he could see his future written clear as day. He couldn’t run. 

“In that case Joel will show you your room and you can meet your fellow patients, most of them aren’t on the floor right now but they’ll all be around soon.” 

Michael hesitated in the doorway. The nurse had a warm smile on his face, the same smile that had been on every face since he’d arrive. A calming, placating smile that was clearly designed to catch him off guard. 

“I can be available 24 7 if you need me,” Burnie said as he makes a move to usher Michael out of the office, “but I promise it’s not as scary in there as you think.” 

Michael faced the daunting doorway to the ward with a stoney expression, if he was going to go through with this, he was going to do it with dignity intact. 

Through the glass doors a guy looked up from a desk and smiled, reaching over and signalling with a half thumbs-up which Joel returned and pushed on the handle, nudging Michael forward through the doorway. 

And suddenly, just like that, he was on the wrong side of a locked door. He didn’t have a key, no codes, he was on his own and this was only the beginning. 

\---

Michael had left his phone, wallet, other worldly possessions with his mother before the police had carted him off to the facility but, once inside, they stripped him of a whole lot more. His outdoor clothes were swapped for scrubs (he could get them back if he made sure to behave) his single bag was taken and searched more thoroughly than he could have ever imagined, hell even his shoelaces were removed (he’d given Joel a disbelieving look but it had been clear there was no room for discussion on the matter) and then he was moving through admission like a pinball, tripping over the tongues of his shoes that flapped around with no laces to keep them in. 

They were put with his clothes and a pair of blue slip ons were provided instead.

Joel told him not to look so nervous, that it would all be okay. He had his doubts. 

Michael followed Joel down a long hallway with stark white walls and tile floors lit by fluorescent lights. The man didn't try to make small talk, which Michael really appreciated, but instead launched into an explanation on how things were run in this place. Wake up call was at 7:00, breakfast at 7:30 and the showers would be open until 9, Community meetings at 10, and lunch at 12. Between meals they had free time in either their rooms, or the rec room where there was a TV, some cards, and a radio (although Joel informed him that, sadly, the hospital didn't get any good stations). He'd be informed of his session days after breakfast (although how the hell he was supposed to keep track of what day it was in this place he'll never know), and there were "group sessions" three times a week as well, whatever the fuck that meant.

He was lead, then, into a relatively open room, also lit by fluorescent lights but with "soothing" powder blue and pastel pink walls that actually made Michael want to slam his head into the wall (totally not an exaggeration). Sitting in a semicircle around an outdated TV was a group of five of, what Michael assumed to be, fellow patients.

As soon as their footsteps were heard, the guy closest to the TV with shaggy hair and a rather large nose looked up and grinned at Joel, "Heymaaaaan!” he called out as they approached, a shit eating grin splitting his face, “We were _just_ talking about you!” His accent was notably different, foreign, vaguely annoying. 

A kid in the seat to his left peeked up through thick glasses, “We weren’t,” he mumbled before ducking his head back down. He had some form of plastic plate with different colored buttons on it, fingers working at the buttons in no real order that Michael could tell.

“Sure we were!” The Brit countered, spinning round on his ass and leaning back so he had all of them in full view, “Ray was just saying how that new blue uniform really brings out the color of your eyes, weren’t you Ray?” 

The boy to the left peeked up again, wide eyed like a deer in headlights, “N-no, I never said that.”

Nose boy tutted, “You big fibber, Raymond - He’s just too shy to admit it you see, poor bloke, needs to get laid soon or he’ll lose _all_ the minimal sex appeal hiding behind those unfortunately baggy clothes.”

Joel tensed behind Michael and the boy could _hear_ him grinding his teeth and biting back a retort. He couldn’t blame the guy, he already wanted to punch this fuck and he’d only been in the room five minutes. 

“You know, Gavin, it’s a real surprise you got anyone on your side in here,” Joel ground out, turning on his heel and stalking away, leaving Michael in the shark's den.

Gavin split a grin and called out, “Bye, love!” 

Ray quickly uncurled himself from the chair, fists clenched and shaking against his thigh though they’re quickly hidden in the sleeves of his oversized purple hoodie as he stood, the plate scrunched up in his left fist before falling to the ground, he made no attempt to pick it up. 

“Why do you have to be such a fucking asshole?” he spat, his voice still quiet though, like he doesn’t want to be heard, “Joel’s a good fucking guy.” 

There was a small groan from the couch as Gavin wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, “Oh I’m sure he’s a _great fucking guy_.” 

That appeared to be the last straw for Ray as his next move had him shuffling off down the opposite corridor to the one Michael and Joel just walked. His gait was staggered and slightly off kilter as he walked with his head ducked low and his body curled in around the arms across his stomach. 

“Joel went the other way, Raymond!” Gavin called out but he was kicked in the back a split second later by someone on the couch. 

“ _Ray isn’t short for anything,_ ” came the screech back before hurried footsteps took over the air. 

A ginger kid leaned forward, “Cut that shit out, won’t you Gav? and stop fucking calling him Raymond, you know he hates that.” He was stocky, bulkier than the others around him but not fat, just built like a linebacker. 

“Hey if he doesn’t like it he can always hang out somewhere else,” Gavin reasoned, giving the TV a sharp nudge with his foot as the screen flickers. 

“We’re fucking locked in here with you, no one’s that good at hiding out,” 

Michael stayed quiet through the exchange, unsure whether to subtly try and back out or stick around and listen to the fight but, just at the moment he thought about hightailing it out of there, they seem to remember he’s standing there.

“You wouldn’t guess they’re dating, would you?” The ginger kid said, kicking Gavin in the ribs lightly, in warning. Gavin made some sort of noise of indignation at that, and it reminded Michael oddly of a bird.

No, he really wouldn’t. 

The kid laughed at Michael’s surprise and nods, “Well they are, and Gavin’s gonna go apologise really nicely to both Ray and Joel real soon, aren’t you Gav?”

“I guess,” Gavin grumbled, suddenly a lot more subdued as he picked at the hem of his scrubs. 

“ _Gav,_ ” the boy warned.

With a huff Gavin stood, “Fine,” he said, dragging his feet in protest as he headed down the corridor after Ray. 

Michael stood in the same spot, wondering what the fuck he’d gotten himself into until he was being motioned forward. 

"Grab a chair, sit down." Michael awkwardly shuffled over to the seat which Ray had been bundled up in. It was still warm with his body heat and dipped in the middle to a point where there were no longer springs inside the worn out cushion.

“My name’s Jack,” he introduced with a smile and a handshake that Michael had to lean out of his seat to reach. 

Now that he was sitting down he could see the other two who had been hidden by the couch. One was reclining back against the couch, his clothes hanging off his slim frame like he was dressed in jumbo trash bags and his crystal blue eyes had a tired look about them, half-lidded with dark circles underneath.

“Geoff,” Jack, again, introduced. Geoff made a little attempt at looking up and greeting him but Michael had the distinct feeling that he wasn’t totally in the room. 

“And Ryan.” 

Jack's gesture directed Michael's gaze to a guy with dirty blonde hair and a body built like an upside down triangle, with broad shoulders and slim hips, sitting in a chair beside the couch, eyes focused on the TV. He glanced over at the sound of his name, gave Michael a brisk nod and a, "Hello." Before going back to watching the television screen.

They sat in relative silence for several minutes, the TV providing adequate background noise, until Jack noticed the plastic object Ray had been using lying on the floor, picking it up and examining the slightly crumpled edges. "I'm gonna have to make a new one of these." He said with a soft frown.

"What is it?" Michael asked, examining it as Jack started smoothing out the wrinkles.

"Ray uses it for anxiety." A voice sounded to Michael's left, and it took him a moment to realize that it was Geoff who had spoken. His voice was higher than he had been expecting, and it sort of caught him off guard. "Says pushing buttons helped before he was in here, but those assholes won't let him have a DS in this place even if it _will_ help him a lot." His voice was bitter, and Jack reached over to gently pat his knee. Michael couldn't miss the endearing look in Geoff's eyes as he regarded the ginger haired male, and it didn't take any time at all for Michael to just _know_ that there was something going on there.

"I'll bring it to him. Make sure he hasn't disemboweled Gavin yet." Ryan spoke up from his seat, taking the small object from Jack's hand, taking a deep, shaky breath and bidding Michael farewell before turning and hastily leaving the room.

Geoff sighed and spread himself out across the couch, kicking his feet up into Jack’s lap as he blinked bleary eyes at the flickering TV. It was a cooking show, with a wrinkled old lady hunched over the counter as she counted out potato slices into the pan; in any other world Michael would have snatched the remote and switched sides to something else, but there was no remote, no one he’d be comfortable fighting with for control of the tv. 

\---

Geoff, it turned out, was going to be Michael's roommate for the extent of his stay... Unless Geoff got out before him, that is, but the other male assured him that that would most definitely not be the case.

"They keep us here until we turn 18, then move us to the adult ward on a different floor." Geoff explained, "So you're stuck with my ass for... How long are you here?"

"No idea. They won't tell me shit." Michael replied, and Geoff lounged back against the pillow on his bed.

“They didn’t even hint? Long term, short term?” 

Michael thought about it and tried to pull up the conversation that he’d had back at the beginning. He hadn’t really been listening past you’re under arrest. His mind went blank for days after. 

“Maybe,” Michael replied instead of answering. “I can’t really…”

Geoff nodded, “Fair enough, what are you in for anyways?"

"Aren't you not supposed to ask that question?"

"Nah, that's prison. Not the nut house." Geoff said with a smirk, looking over at Michael.

"Why are _you_ in here?" Michael replied and Geoff tutted in disapproval.

"I asked first."

Michael huffed and his fingers slowly clenched into fists on his thighs, "I got pissed and bit a cop. It was either this or jail."

Geoff whistled from between his teeth, looking almost... Impressed. "Damn. That's almost as bad as Ryan."

"What did Ryan do?"

"Thats up to him to tell you." Geoff stated, waving a hand through the air. He pulled his knees up, left leg crossing over right as he made himself smaller, which sure wasn't hard. 

"Okay so your turn," Michael prompted and Geoff froze up a little before relaxing into the answer. 

"I have an 'eating disorder,'" Geoff replied with a roll of the eyes and hands making quotation marks loosely over his legs, "My parents didn't want to deal with it, so they put me in here." He shrugged, "Rich people are all assholes. Especially if they're having a very important dinner with very important people. Apparently their kid passing out and falling down the stairs doesn't do well for their 'image'." Geoff's bitter words were punctuated by further air quotes, though these were harder and made with jerkier movements. 

"it's all just bullshit, dude." Geoff continued, waving a hand dismissively, "I just needed to lose a few pounds, ain't nothing wrong with going on a diet." 

Michael looked at the way geoff's veins glowed blue through his skin, the way he could see the outline of bone pressing hard against them. Even through the scrub shirt there was clear indication that the boys stomach was concave, skin waxy; his hair was thin, falling out, and he looked like keeping his eyes open was an olympic event. Denial. 

He only realised he’d been staring too long when Geoff’s fingers snap in front of his eyes, “What?” Geoff snapped. 

“Nothing,” Michael said quickly, dispelling his thoughts with a shake of the head. “Spacey I guess.”

Geoff nodded in understanding, “This place will do that to you - what meds they got you on?” 

“Dr Burns took me off them all.”

Before Geoff could respond, the door to their room clicked open and Joel’s head popped through the gap. His hand hovered near the light switch situated by the door, the instruction clear, they didn’t need to get up. 

“Lights out, guys,” he said kindly, giving both boys enough time to lay down and pull up their sheets before flicking the light off and shutting out the rest of it with the door. 

Geoff let out a long sigh and rolled over, in the little light left from streetlamps a street over glowing through the curtains, he saw Geoff tuck his whole body underneath the sheets, his back to Michael. All that was left to see was the back of his head and Michael turned back to face the ceiling. 

The darkness gave Michael a moment to reflect. Like it hadn’t hit him until right now; with a nurse telling him when to sleep, a schedule telling him what time he’d need to be awake in the morning, and rules that took away his fucking shoelaces. 

“I shouldn’t be here.” he whispered into the darkness.

The response came quickly, just as quietly, “Everyone says the same, dude. Just go to sleep.”


	2. Chapter 2

As far back as he could remember, Michael had had a temper. A temper, nothing more. He threw more tantrums than his parents knew what to cope with, he kicked the other kids at school and got put in time out so many times that he might as well have sat right there the whole day.

 

But kids have tempers, that’s just what kids do.

 

It was only as he got older and nothing got better that his parents started thinking that maybe, just maybe, this wasn't normal, that it just wasn't going to "go away" with age and maturity.

 

“It’s ADHD,” the first doctor said as he clicked the top of his pen. Chicken scratch on paper, a false smile, and Michael was on his way with a pot load of pills.

 

They made him drowsy and weak, like his head was too heavy for his body, but they didn’t make him feel any calmer. The pills just stopped his arms from doing their job when Michael prayed to punch someone in the mouth.

 

“It’s definitely ADHD,” the second doctor said. He replaced the prescription with something different and sent them on their way.

 

They didn’t help either.

 

His parents weren’t happy. They were at their wits end and they told him as such every day. According to them he needed to stop wasting their time and money and just calm down his attitude; he was eleven at the time and couldn’t find a string of words that would explain himself the best.

 

The episodes carried on through middle school, followed him to Junior High; through therapists and counsellors, a body like a rattling pill bottle until finally, at the age of 14, he snapped.

 

\---

 

It had been on a rather uneventful day, Michael managing to make it through an entire day of school without wanting to punch someone or throw them through a wall (not that he could do that anyways, but the urge was still there) before he and Lindsay headed down to the mall to fuck around for a few hours.

 

Michael dreaded going home lately. Things were always tense, his parents both walking on eggshells around him while also managing to make him feel like a burden and an uncontrollable monster.

 

The last thing Michael needed, when he was already so on edge, was fucking _Craig_ of all people showing up. Craig was two years older than both Michael and Lindsay but still insisted on wasting his life away tormenting them (along with any other poor freshman who happened to get in his way). He was dumb as rocks, too, but made up for it by being built like a fucking mountain.

 

"Hey, Jones!"

 

"Oh god." Lindsay groaned as the meathead approached.

 

With practised ease, Michael actively tuned out whatever he was saying to avoid doing something extremely dumb. He kept his eyes forward, his legs moving until they weren’t anymore, until Lindsay had left his side.

 

He just kept tuning it out.

 

At least, that's what he was doing until he was snapped back to attention by Craig telling Lindsay, "I always knew you were a lezzie bitch." He was towering, too close now for Michael to ignore.

 

"I'm not a lesbian Craig, but I'll still never fuck you." Lindsay snapped, not backing down as all 6 feet 4 inches of Craig loomed over her. She turned and started to walk away, leading Michael along, who already felt anger bubbling up underneath the surface.

 

"Don't walk away from me, bitch." Craig growled then, clearly not used to being denied, his big, meaty hand shooting out to grab Lindsay's upper arm, yanking her back.

 

Michael felt the anger spike then, and the fog on his mind from his meds cleared enough for a red haze to settle over it. He felt himself launch forward, and then everything was a blur of pure _rage_ , black and dense, clouding over every part of him and he couldn’t _see._

 

Once the fog on his mind cleared Michael was first made aware of the squirming body beneath his hands, then of the sound of pained groaning and running water. He lowered his gaze slowly, his eyes taking in the sight of Craig, lip split and blood dripping steadily from his, clearly broken, nose. He didn't register why the guy's face was getting steadily redder until he realized his hands were gripping his throat, all of his weight pressing down on his windpipe.

 

Michael quickly let go of Craig's neck as if he had been burned, stumbling back away from the fountain and shaking, feeling trapped by the crowd that had gathered when the fight had broken out. He turned and Lindsay was staring at him like he was some sort of monster, and that was all he could take.

 

Before he could run though, a security guard was grabbing him. He tried to struggle, but it was no use. He was worn out from the fight, and as soon as the buzz adrenaline was gone he was made acutely aware of his aching jaw and the taste of blood in his mouth, probably from biting his tongue.

 

It wasn’t the first time he had thrown himself into trouble with his anger, but it was definitely the worst to date. It was the first time he ended up in the hands of the _police_ for his actions.

 

\---

 

Michael woke, not for the first time, without a single clue where he was. Strange four walls, strange colorations that were far from being his usual waking sight; steady breathing that was unmatched against his own, slightly hitched exhalations. The hospital. Definitely wasn’t a dream.

 

He squeezed his eyes back together tightly until he saw the pulsing patterns of stars flash across his eyelids.

 

If he’d been at home it would have been clear to him what to do. He’d have pulled the sheets up over his face and gone back to sleep, waiting until his parents kicked on the door to force him to wake up and go to school (or leave the house - going to school didn’t always happen) He’d chug a redbull or two and slip one into his bag for later. He’d sit in the park--maybe read, maybe stare into the sun until his vision dissolved into white, maybe do absolutely nothing. It wouldn’t matter. It’d be his choice.

 

Instead he laid there in waiting; for Geoff to wake up or an alarm to go off, for Joel to come get him or even Dr Burns. It hit him with a jolt that he had no idea whether he was expected to get himself up or if he’d be fetched by the staff. He didn’t even know the time.

 

A phone started ringing outside, almost silent but it held the edge off Michael’s brain that was trying to pull him back into sleep. Geoff mumbled, Michael tugged the sheet - that was the off pink color of steamed salmon - over his face again.  

 

Minutes or hours may have gone by like that with the sterile air swirling around the confined space under the sheets but, just as he was close to drifting off again, there was a knock on the door, a click, and a voice saying, “Breakfast in thirty minutes, boys.”

 

Michael didn’t move and the door clicked shut again. He could only hear his own breathing until a soft thud and-

 

“Best fucking time of the day.”

 

He pulled his sheets away and saw Geoff lying flat on his back. He’d kicked the sheets off himself (off the bed) completely, they sat in a pool at the base of the wall opposite the footboard. He shifted on the bed, sort of a full body wiggle while he made a frustrated kind of whine before flopping limply.

 

It was the weirdest, quickest temper-tantrum Michael had ever seen.

 

Geoff seemed to have a better sense of hospital time than Michael, standing up after a while and stretching, announcing it would be close to 7:30 soon and he’d get lectured if he let Michael miss breakfast on his first morning.

 

There was a fresh pair of scrubs on the shelf to Michael’s left. He stared at them as Geoff dumped his sheets unceremoniously back onto the mattress, a bony finger poking into the space between Michael’s shoulder. He left the scrubs behind and followed Geoff into the hallway.

 

\---

 

“These are the showers,” Geoff said, gesturing to two doors side by side. He slid the ‘occupied, vacant’ sign back and forth a couple of times and said, “There’s no curtain behind here and no locks so you better keep one foot on the door if you don’t want anyone seeing you scrubbing your balls.”

 

As if to prove his point he gave the door a harsh kick and it swung open and bounced off the wall inside as the occupant of the space screeched, one hand cupping himself and the other flipping Geoff the bird.

 

“Geoff! You asshole, fuck off!”

 

Michael disguised a laugh with a cough into his hand but Geoff wasn’t so considerate. He laughed like a hyena while wedging the door open with one foot.

 

The boy tried to push the door with one hand to save some modesty.

 

“Foot rule!” Geoff screeched through his laughter.

 

“I’ll foot rule your ass, Ramsey,” the boy growled, finally giving up trying one handed as he jumped behind the door and gave it a solid shove. The strength was enough to throw Geoff off balance, slamming the door shut with enough force that Geoff staggered and fell back against Michael.

 

Michael almost pushed him away with the shock of feeling nothing but sharp bones under his hands. His laughter cut short, probably thrown out of his lungs along with the rush of air.

 

A door clicked open, footsteps sounding as Geoff righted himself with Michael’s help.

 

“Breakfast, Geoff,” Michael recognised Dr Burns’ voice and sure enough he was there, his dress shirt loose and tie hanging halfway down his chest rather than pushed right up.

 

Geoff grumbled, “Yeah, Burnie, we’re going.”

 

A bony hand wrapped around Michael's upper arm and he was being herded towards the end of the hallway.

 

“Wait!” Dr Burns called out, giving him a two finger wave. “Don’t you have something to say?”

 

Geoff huffed, wiped his face, took a step forward before barrelling towards the door, barely being stopped by the doctor before he barged in on the poor boy once more.

 

“I am _ever so_ sorry if I upset your delicate sensibilities, Sir Gustav.” Geoff mocked in a (surprisingly good) imitation of a southern belle.

 

The reply came quickly, screeched through the door, “Bite me, Ramsey!”

 

“Some people just can’t accept an apology,” Geoff told Burns in mock sadness.

 

The man shook his head and pointed down the hall, “Just go to breakfast, boys.”

 

The bony hand was back but only briefly this time, dragging Michael a few steps before letting him continue the rest of the way on his own momentum. Approaching the cafeteria Michael was surprised to see the room almost full considering it has only passed 7:30 minutes ago.

 

\---

 

While standing in line in the cafeteria to get breakfast Michael could _almost_ convince himself that he was simply in line to get shitty school food before going to sit down with his friends at their designated table situated in the corner of the gym-slash-cafeteria, that everything was normal. That illusion was shattered quickly as he turned away from grabbing a carton of milk for his cereal and was confronted with the harsh reality of the fact that everyone sitting in this room was mentally fucked up, him included.

 

Geoff skipped the line, shuffling over to a table in the far corner empty handed. Michael saw Jack sigh and pick up a second tray along with his own, balancing them precariously before dropping one onto the table under Geoff’s nose. Engrossed in that occurrence, Michael didn’t notice he was holding up the line until he found a foot kicking the back of his shins and a very annoyed voice behind him telling him they didn’t have all day. They literally did, what else did they have planned?

 

Gavin beckoned to him from the front of the line and Michael quickly scurried over, whispering hurried apologies to the people behind him. Ryan slunk in with

 

"Where's Ray?" Ryan asked as soon as Gavin arrived at the table without the other lad in tow.

 

Shrugging, Gavin said, "Joel took him to see Burns. He got stuck turning the lights on and off again at fucking five AM. Almost gave me a damn seizure." Gavin replied through a mouthful of eggs, both Geoff and Jack making displeased faces at the display.

 

"You pushed him too far yesterday, Gav." Jack said, tone somehow both gentle and firm, "He was doing better too. He hasn't gotten stuck like that in months."

 

“Oi that wasn’t on me!” Gavin retorted.

As Jack and Gavin leapt into a game of vocal tennis, Michael looked to Ryan.

 

"Stuck?" he asked.

 

Ryan stabbed a piece of egg with his fork and nodded, "Ray has OCD," he said. "In moments of high stress he's inconsolable. At Christmas someone mixed his applesauce in with the vegetables and he was an absolute mess, couldn't breathe, couldn't stop crying, it was horrible."

 

Christmas had gone by six months ago, they'd really been there that long? Would _he_ be there that long?

 

“Wow.”

 

Ryan nodded solemnly, “First time I ever saw him need to be sedated. Made for a lousy Christmas, I’ll tell you that.”

 

Michael couldn’t help blurting out, “How long have you guys even been here?” to which Ryan raised one thin eyebrow and shot him a look just short of surprise.

 

“Not at breakfast dude, seriously?”

 

Michael didn’t get to reply his stuttered apologies because a moment later Geoff was making a sound of annoyance and someone passed behind Michael to Geoff's side of the table. A nurse, a female nurse with bright purple hair tied up in a high ponytail and thick, square glasses framing her face pulled out the chair to Geoff’s left and sat down.

 

“Morning boys!” she grinned. Her voice was light and airy, easy to listen to.

 

Geoff pushed the food around on his plate and refused to look up.

 

"Michael, meet Meg, she gets to watch me eat like a creepy motherfucker."

 

Meg, undisturbed by Geoff's sour attitude smiled and said, "It's nice to meet you, Michael, hopefully we won't have to eat together for long." He couldn't tell if she meant Geoff would be free soon or himself.

 

Instead of finding something relatively intellectual to say in response Michael said, dumbly and through a mouthful of food, “I uh- I like your hair."

 

Her smile, if it could, got even bigger, from ear to ear and she beamed, “Well thank you very much, Michael!”

 

“Yeah sure, suck up to the witch lady,” Geoff grumbled, stabbing at the minimal food on his plate.

 

Meg solidly refused to make any sort of retort back, trained better than to fight with the patients. She fell into a conversation with Jack instead, about visitation, about seeing his parents. He was probably the one person at the entire table who seemed excited about the visits.

 

Well, except Michael, who didn’t even know they were a thing.

 

Michael was so invested in watching the way Geoff shook as his fork fell back to the table and the scowl he was shooting towards Meg that he didn’t even notice his own plate hadn’t been touched until Joel leaned over his shoulder.

 

“Three points for eating, Michael.”

 

He hadn’t been told the entire ins and outs of the point system, only a brief introduction to it in Burns’ office; but from what he can gather, points are given, add up over time, and increase one's chances of being released back out onto the streets. There hadn’t been a straight answer for Michael when he asked if that was how it would work for him. He was there by court order, was ‘out on good behavior’ applicable to him?

 

Michael sighed and lifted a spoonful of cheerios to his mouth-- chewed, swallowed, Joel smiled and left.

 

“I don’t have a...problem with food,” Michael whispered to Jack, brow furrowing and his voice lowered so as not to disturb Geoff.

 

Jack shrugged, flicking a droplet of milk off his spoon onto the table with the motion, “Doesn’t matter--you eat, you get points,” he replied just as quietly. Ryan reached out with a napkin and silently mopped up the milk.

 

“Come on Geoff,” Meg said kindly, lacing her fingers together as she leaned onto the table. “You know what you’ve gotta do.”

 

“Yeah I know the fucking drill,” Geoff spat, staring at his food warily, like it was going to leap out of the bowl and bite him.

 

He glanced sideways and growled before shovelling the food into his mouth so quickly that the whole plate was pretty much licked clean in under a minute. He shoved the plate away from himself and it slid back enough to bump Ryan’s, followed by the fork that clattered onto the plate.

 

“There, you fucking happy?” He growled, slamming his palms down onto the table surface as he stood, the chair tipping backwards to the ground.

 

In the seconds that followed he gave a literal demonstration of ‘going green in the face’ and he curled in around his stomach slightly before gagging a little.

 

He stormed off suddenly, holding a hand across his mouth and another over his stomach.

 

Meg waved at them all and followed, leaving an almost silent table behind. Michael let his spoon sit in the leftover milk congealing in the bowl, the last dregs of cereal were boats atop the white seas and Michael wondered distantly if he’d be counted down for leaving it.

 

“Is he okay?” he asked in a small voice.

 

Gavin waved him off, “He’s probably you know-” he made a crude gesture with two fingers over his tongue and, going by the yelp he let out almost immediately, someone had kicked him.

 

“Ugh, sorry, yeah he’s fine, just needs to… get it out of his system.” His smile turned into another grimace and this time he kicked back. “Shove off, Ryan you pleb.”

 

\---

 

The TV room was a lot more occupied this time around as they sat around in their huddled group near the couches. He hadn’t meant to gravitate towards the boys but it had just...happened. A few hours in the place felt like glue.

 

Geoff was back at that point, grumpy and sour but a lot less green. Ray was too, he hadn’t said a word since he’d returned but he was smiling, so that seemed like a plus.

 

The TV flickered between static and black. One girl in the middle, fingers gripping the remote tightly enough to turn her knuckles white, fought off the displeased remarks from the other residents. He couldn’t hear what she was saying but the TV remained on her obscure pick.

 

Someone new stood before him, staff, a face he hadn’t seen yet.

 

“Michael? Hey you’ve got a phonecall, man,” he said in a steady, trained voice.

 

\---

 

The phones were located in far right of the unit, mounted on the wall securely; new face led him to them, handed him the receiver and left with a smile. Michael hesitantly held the handset to his ear, barely getting a second to breathe before a voice was speaking fast into his ear.

 

"Oh my _god_ you're really in a fucking loony bin! I thought Toby was lying!"

 

Michael pressed the handset closer to his ear and scrunched his nose in surprise, "Lindsay?"

 

The voice on the other end laughed, "No, it's your mother, of course it's me, dumbass. I tried your house but your mom said you weren't home."

 

"Yeah no kidding," Michael muttered, he tucked himself behind the box on the wall, keeping an eye on the empty hallway. "How did you get the number for this place?"

 

"My neighbor's kid had a breakdown last year, I bribed his Dad for the details. Totally didn't think you'd actually be there though!"

 

"Well here I am," he replied dumbly, twisting the connecting cable around the palm of his hand.

 

"There you are alright! They got you on any good stuff? Mitch won't stop nagging Toby to find out,"

 

"No, they took me off everything I'm not giving shit to that druggy anyway- wait, how does Toby know?"

 

Lindsay hummed, "Uhh his Dad's a cop? Heard about your total animal breakdown and you know nothing stays quiet here for long."

 

Michael froze, "His Dad- he- does anyone else know?" he could feel his brain clouding over, ashy fog creeping in at the corners of his eyes.

 

"Like, everyone? You're fucking famous Michael, this is the most interesting thing to happen here in like...our entire lives."

 

"They all-" his breathing hitched, stuck beneath panic in his throat.

 

"You'll be back soon though right? I mean there's nothing wrong with you."

 

"I'm-" he gasped, struggling to keep it together, "in a mental hospital Linds, this isn't like time out."

 

She scoffed and he could see her rolling his eyes in his mind's eye like he was right there with her, "Yeah I know but it's like a technicality, it's not like you're a nut job or something,"

 

He slammed the phone down before she could say anything else, leaning over the handset and just tried to breathe through clouds.

 

His fist hit the wall, then. The motion was sharp and fast, cracking his knuckles against the plaster before he could fully comprehend what he intended to do. The pain was immediate and all encompassing, edging back fogginess and he gasped, pushing himself away from the phone like it was on fire.

 

Michael felt like a weight was being pressed down on his chest, threatening to crush his bones into dust and bust his heart like a balloon. He couldn't breathe as he rushed away from the phone booth, shaking like a leaf as he looked around frantically for a way out, like a wild animal cornered by a hunter.

 

It slowly dawned on him that there _wasn't_ a way out. He was locked up in a mental ward because he was fucking crazy enough to be losing his mind with nerves over a simple phone call.

 

His knees gave out beneath him and he collapsed to the floor, fingers sliding into his hair and pulling, pulling until his scalp was on fire, still struggling to take just a simple, steady breath. He couldn't fully itemise the pressures and sensations of pressing his back into the wall and his knees up to his chest but his safe headspace was far, far away and biting.

 

He couldn't even begin to question why there were no staff members around to witness his utter breakdown, why there were no patients either. The hallways were almost empty or maybe he'd just found a new part to the ward that was undetected by the others. Either way it didn't matter because his chest was burning, his hands shaking, his whole body feeling swallowed up by darkness.

 

His mind barely registered the sound of footsteps approaching as his head started to swim, spots popping up in his vision as a pair of hands hauled him to his feet.

 

"Come on, buddy. If they see you like this they're going to sedate the fuck out of you." Geoff's voice sounded like it was a thousand miles away. Somehow, Michael willed his feet into moving as Geoff half dragged, half carried him down the hall into their room, pushing him back onto his bed.

 

"Breathe." He said firmly, bony fingers digging into Michael's shoulders. And he wanted to comply, in fact he would have given _anything_ to comply; but his body refused to listen as his lungs continued to spasm and only allowed him short, sharp intakes of breath.

 

“Come on, Michael I know you can.”

 

His eyes locked with Geoff’s for a single heartstopping moment and he blinked frantically because he _knew_ what was coming, he could feel the black creeping in; the spots blending into one until finally, _finally_ , black swallowed his entire world.

 

\- - -

 

Michael didn't know how long he had been out. He only knew that, once he opened his eyes, he was thirsty as all hell, and didn't remember how he had gotten onto his bed. He pushed himself to a sitting position and looked across the room to where Geoff was, leaning against the wall behind his bed and reading a book propped open on his lap.

 

"What happened?" Michael asked, voice weaker than he was expecting.

 

Geoff glanced up from his book, scratched his chest, put the book down on the floor and creaked as he unfolded himself and stood up.

 

“Panic attack,” he said simply, kneeling on the bed. The mattress only dipped where his knees were, sharp points into the softness. He added before Michael could ask, “Don’t worry, I told Joel you needed a nap after breakfast, they’ll be lenient since you’re so new. Said as long as I can get you to lunch on time you can miss group just this once.”

 

“Thanks,” Michael said. He stared at the wall and scrubbed a hand over his face.

 

“Nah, I gotta thank _you,_ dude. I got to miss group too.” Michael nodded.

 

He felt gross and sticky and wanted nothing more than to roll back over and go to sleep for another week, but Geoff was there to stop him from pulling the sheets up and instead let him collapse onto his back with a groan.

 

He wanted a shower, he really wanted to wash off the feeling of residual stress but the showers would be locked now, only available with a key and permission from the staff. Which would mean he would have to tell them why he wanted to shower, which meant admitting to the panic attack, which would throw out his ‘not crazy’ persona.

 

He hadn’t even realised his breathing had picked back up and his face had started to pale until Geoff planted a hand on the back of Michael’s neck and firmly forced the boys head forward to his knees.

 

Over the faint pulsing of blood in his ears, Michael heard Geoff say, “You still figure you shouldn’t be here?”

 


	3. Interlude: Geoff Ramsey, Skin & Bones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before Geoff was locked up in the unit, he was just a boy unsure of himself.

His problems with food started so young that by the time they figured out that it was more than just a child who was a picky eater, it was too late. He was stuck in ways that were self destructing and life damaging. 

Truth be told he had never been pleased with the concept of eating. His habits started out as whatever tastes nice, and the food his family served was not considered nice. Bland and boring and Geoff supplemented his small meals with chips and cake he would take from the treat cupboard. When his friends came over there would be snacks and soda, when he visited them it was pizza and take out; his diet was unhealthy but it was his laziness that really defeated him. 

His parents were both highly respected in the world of politics. His Dad an up and coming candidate for senate, his Mom following every step he took with her glasses sitting on the end of her nose and a pen always ready to take notes on anything happening around them that could make up a campaign. As such, they sat happily in the position of ‘too busy to notice or care about their son’s eating habits’ and never made a comment beyond snapping at him to listen when their maid cooked a rich dinner of meat and vegetables, and he would only soak up the potatoes and inhale them before leaving to play games. 

Geoff met Richard Markson when he was just 9 years old. Richard was Geoff's dad's main advisor and according to Mr Ramsey, he was damn good at his job. 

Which meant he would spend a lot of time with The Ramsey family, going over paperwork and press, discussing the next big thing in the campaign, and eventually staying around for dinner and arriving early enough for the maid to cook up breakfast. 

The man was never afraid to say what was truly on his mind, and his brain-to-mouth filter was practically non-existent. Which meant that he had no qualms whatsoever about telling a nine year old child, after poking his little bit of kid-chub he had built up over the years, that he was: "Getting a little pudgy there kid. Not really the ideal look for the kid of a future President of the United States."

Geoff’s first reaction had been to grumble and throw his chips at the closing door as Richard left. What an asshole, seriously who the fuck has the gall to say that kind of bull to a nine year old kid? It was ridiculous anyway-- Geoff had a high metabolism, always had. He burned off food faster than he could get it into his stomach; he’d always been skinny, bony all over, he wasn’t fat. 

By dinner the next day, his opinion had wavered. 

Geoff had a suit hanging in the back of his closet. It was a rich deep navy in color, lined with soft black silk and tailored to perfection. Paired with a crisp, white shirt (that the staff always ensured was freshly pressed in time for it’s use) and a simple, slim tie that matched the jacket, he almost looked like he belonged in a room full of stuffy officials and aristocrats. 

He had quite quickly outgrown the last suit they’d ordered for him; what with the inexplicable growth spurt he had received as a gift from mother nature on his latest birthday. This particular one was only a month or two old, fitted to his body without an inch of allowance in any direction. It had always fit perfectly. 

But as he dressed for the evenings event (yet another stupid campaign meeting where Geoff would be expected to smile and shake hands and pretend he wanted to be there supporting his father) he noticed an error in the shape of his jacket where the buttons met. A stretch, a flap where the pudge of his belly was stopping the jacket from closing correctly. 

He let the jacket fall open, ensured his tie was at the perfect length and tucked his shirt into the top of his pants so that it was perfectly level. Sure, he would probably get chewed out by his mother for dressing so ‘casually’ but it was worth not seeing the smug satisfaction on Richard’s face when he saw that he was right. 

And Geoff had spent the rest of the weekend worrying about it, poking at his stomach and staring at himself in the mirror. At dinner he just pushed his food around with his fork, only eating a few leaves of lettuce as his parents talked among themselves, paying him no mind as he fed most of the meal to the dog.

For the first time in his life he went to bed hungry. His stomach growled, grumbling angrily at him for decreasing his intake, but he rolled over and pressed his fist painfully against his belly button to distract himself as he fell into sleep. 

The next day he awoke feeling empty-- hollow but...clean. He tipped away his breakfast while the maid wasn’t looking, masking the disposal by screwing up a few sheets of the paper; his dad’s face grinned up at him through grainy shades of grey print and he shoved another sheet on top of that. 

Within two weeks his jacket fit him again. He felt sick and dizzy, his stomach gnawing and clawing away at his guts; he was tired, too but the jacket fit him again, and he stood with pride beside his family as they took a photo for the press. For the first time his Dad held a hand on his shoulder that lingered longer than the photographer needed, for the first time in a long while Geoff felt like his Dad was proud; and there was only one explanation. 

After that he cut out all of his old eating habits, avoiding his friends’ invitations to hang out in order to prevent the temptation of greasy, fatty foods, throwing out all the snack cakes and chips from his snack drawer, not asking their personal shopper to buy him any more. His little bit of baby fat that he still had quickly went away with the sudden change of diet, but it wasn't enough. He had to look right for the world, had to finally have his Dad be proud of him, to feel like he'd finally done something right. 

By the time he stopped giving a shit about what his dad may or may not think of him, the damage was already done, the fear of eating and gaining weight so ingrained in his mind over the years that the thought of stopping his rigorous diet was enough to send him into a full-blown anxiety attack. 

After the initial reasoning bled away he found himself completely in control of his own life. He had a regimen, built up methods, a head full of lists and calorie counters; sure he felt like he was falling apart, like his body was decaying from the inside out, and his hair was thinning and falling out but he had started to look right.

Just those few extra pounds, he would tell himself as he stood in front of the bathroom mirror, pinching non existent fat. He poked at his rigid cheekbones, feeling the flab that stubbornly remained glued to the bone. 

\---

He was 16 when things went terribly wrong. It had been drilled into him how important this dinner was for weeks now, and as he stood in front of the mirror adjusting his suit (which their tailor had been forced to bring further in again after not being worn for three months) his mind was racing to try and figure out how he could get out of eating tonight, knowing that the dog would be locked away to avoid it getting in the way. He could excuse himself, flee to the bathroom and force fingers down his throat; he had a pack of laxatives tucked underneath his mattress, a few of them and he could clean himself out. 

His rotting stomach could take it. 

Feeling like his heart was going to burst out of his chest, his lungs suddenly unable to collect enough air it seemed, Geoff left his room and walked down the hall, dreading every step closer to his descent down into the dining room.

He shivered, pulling his jacket tighter around his skeletal body--he was always cold these days. 

What if they wouldn’t let him leave? It wasn’t guaranteed, they might want him to stay and talk, by the time he could get away the food would be absorbed, he’d inhale the entire lax pack and it wouldn’t do jack shit to help. 

His knees wavered as his fingers gripped the railing for the stairwell as tight as they could in his weakened state, the bones sticking out like jagged rocks from the thin skin. He steadied himself as a wave of vertigo threatened to send him down into unconsciousness (not for the first time in the past couple days), but it soon passed.

Or so he thought.

He barely made it down the first few steps before he was blinking rapidly and the world abruptly cut to black. 

\---

He came to in a bed surrounded by beeping machines, too-bright fluorescent lights, and stark, sterile white hospital room walls. He had more tubes coming out of him than he could count without moving and offsetting one of them, which hurt like a bitch.

"Fuck." He groaned, wincing as his throat seared as if he had swallowed a bunch of red-hot razor blades. Luckily, as far as he could tell, that was what hurt the most.

He was informed by his nurse, after bringing him food and water (the former of which he ignored), that he had fallen down the stairs after passing out. He didn't have any serious injuries, just some bruises. She also pointed out how it was a miracle he didn't break something on the way down. However, they had been forced to start feeding him through an IV line due to his almost critically low BMI and weakness in his bones. 

That horrified Geoff more than the fact that he was in the hospital from passing out and falling down the stairs. Within seconds his hands were clawing at the nasal tube feeding ungodly amounts of calories directly into his system. The nurse called alert and held his hands at his sides; it didn’t take much effort on her part to keep him down through his squirming, he was as weak as a kitten. 

His hands were restrained from then on. 

First the doctor asked him if he was okay at home, if his family were treating him right because he was way too malnourished and there were bruises down his legs, across his back, tiny peppered spots along his ribs. He told the stuffy doctor that his parents didn’t look at him long enough in a day to hurt him, and that the staff weren’t involved either. He fell, he was clumsy and sometimes he just fell. 

Another doctor was sent in then, one in a turtleneck and dress pants who asked him question after question about his mood and eating habits. Geoff answered carefully but this doctor was good, she got what she needed. 

\---

"You have to get me checked out of here, ma." Geoff pleaded once his parents finally came to come see him after three days of being awake, three days of constantly being on edge with the knowledge that he was being fed, whether he liked to be or not. He of course appealed to his mother, the only one who ever showed him any form of sympathy or love, no matter how rare it may be.

"You can't keep embarrassing the family like this, Geoffrey." His dad cut in harshly, not letting his wife get a word in edgeways, "You know how important this dinner was for us, you could have just lost me this election. Do you really want that to happen?"

"I don't know, dad. If you stopped focusing on your damn election for five seconds, maybe you'd actually pay attention to your family and stop being a fucking asshole." Geoff replied cooly, but flinched as his dad raised his hand.

"Yeah, that's what I thought." The older man growled, turning to his wife, "Go with what we talked about. Don't let him talk his way out of it." He shook his head as he left the room, letting the door shut behind him with a finalizing "click".

"Ma, what's he talking about?" Geoff asked, hating how small his voice sounded. He was scared, he realized, scared that his fucked up decisions were finally catching up to him.

"We're having you admitted, Geoffrey." She replied solemnly, "The Doctor says you've been sick for a very long time now, we have to do something about it."

Geoff's heart leapt into his throat. 

"Dad put you up to this, didn't he?" Geoff demanded, voice cracking as he sat up as far as he could in that damned hospital bed, "He told you to do this. He just wants me out of the way, Ma. He doesn't care about me, he just cares about his fucking image."

The woman simply shook her head and turned to leave, offering a weak goodbye and telling him that she loved him before walking towards the door.

"Ma, wait. Please, don't let them lock me up. Ma, please! Ma!" He cursed and fell back against the bed as the door shut behind her, closing his eyes tight enough for stars and bursts of color to show in the darkness behind eyelids, not letting the tears that closed up his throat and clenched his jaw to fall. 

That night he slipped out of the restraints, almost dislocating his thumbs in the process, and tore out the tubes. His body felt stronger but his mind was weak, he barely made it with staggered effort to the door before nurses held him back and he just broke. He didn’t fight, he didn’t kick back, he cried; loud, guttural cries with heaving in his chest that made his heart burn. 

Tired, he was just so tired. He’d had enough. 

\---

His first week in the facility he didn’t say a word. Just stared at the four walls of his bedroom, the rec room, Dr Burns’s office. He refused the food, refused the attention, ended up with a gastric tube; then he met Jack. Lovely, kind Jack. A boy who smiled more than his head wanted him to and gave out pieces of his heart like they were candy. 

Jack made things a little easier. He rubbed Geoff's back and talked to him in a soothing voice when his first meal he actually ate came right back up, his throat burning and his stomach cramping painfully as his eyes watered. He was there when Geoff struggled to keep himself together, when he'd just sit in silence with his fingers clasped together so tightly they'd go numb, trying not to think of the last meal he ate, or the fact that he was locked up in a giant, sterilized box with other crazy people.

He couldn't be there, though, when his own mind made it an effort for him just to get out of bed. When Jack's depression hit him like a semi-truck, Geoff was alone. He tried to be there for his friend, but he wasn't good at being comforting, not in the way Jack was. He was protective, though, and militantly so.

\- - -

The first (but certainly not the last) time Geoff snapped was while Jack was in a session, leaving him alone in the rec room and waiting for him to come back. He didn't even feel it coming, just stood up and sent his fist through the wall, or at least attempted to. The skin split over his knuckles with the second hit, red dripping over his skin and smearing on the wall as he hit it again and again. He couldn't even break through a fucking plasterboard wall which should be the easiest fucking thing in the world. He didn't even register the tears of frustration rolling down his cheeks until they fell to land on his bloodied knuckle, making the scrapes burn faintly.

His body slowly started to relax as he realized what he was doing, only to tense up again instantly as he was grabbed from behind. He tried to break free, but it was no use. He was still as weak as the day he was restrained in his hospital bed.

He yelled and cursed at the nurses trying to subdue him, calling Joel a stupid cunt before sending his head back into the man's jaw (he'd later feel bad about it. Joel was a good guy, just doing his job). The hold on him slipped, and he managed to break free, sprinting out of the rec room towards the doors sealing him off from the outside world, banging his fists on them, getting weaker by the second as his head spun and he struggled to breathe. His malnourished body wasn't used to that much activity, and his heart was buzzing more than it was actually beating.

"I don't belong here!" He screamed, as he was grabbed again, this time by several sets of hands, effectively immobilizing him, "I don't belong in this fucking place! Let me go! You mother fuck--" His protests stopped abruptly as there was the brief prick of a needle against the crook of his elbow, a moment later his muscles going lax and his head feeling as if it was stuffed with cotton balls. He was brought back into the rec room and sat down on the couch, nodding numbly as he was told to stay there and behave.

He didn't know how long he sat there, staring at the blank screen of the TV, before Jack sat beside him. Geoff leaned into him, his head slumping down on his shoulder as he took in the warmth from the other's body, shivering in his thin hospital scrubs.

"I don't belong here, Jack." He mumbled weakly as a soothing hand ran up and down his back, "I don't..."

\---

“Geoff?” 

Jack was staring at him. 

He blinked once, twice, shook his head to clear the mist. They were in the rec room, all 6 of them. He barely remembered the afternoon passing, he didn’t remember lunch. He hoped he hadn’t eaten too much. 

“You alright?” It was Ray who was speaking then, his voice tiny and rough. 

Geoff pressed his knuckles into his eyes, thumbs into his temples and blinked back spots and stars, nodding. 

If he thought too hard he could still hear his family condemning him, still hear Jack whispering soothingly to him as he emptied his heart out into the pillows, could feel the weight of dinner in his stomach; taunting him, laughing at him, making him want to throw up until his organs slide up his throat and escape to safety.

So he didn't think too hard. 

He never thought too hard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out Geoff's playlist here: http://8tracks.com/glackedandmullered/skin-bones-geoff-s-mix


End file.
